


The Nevarran Mummy Incident

by Serindrana



Series: Jane Amell [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Mummies, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serindrana/pseuds/Serindrana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jane Amell and Nathaniel Howe go on a glorious expedition into the jaws of certain death - or scholarship</p><p>A sequel of sorts to Whispers in the Dark, and a True Summer Blockbuster™!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**_The Nevarran Mummy Incident_ **

**_  
_**

_in which Jane Amell and Nathaniel Howe go on a glorious expedition into the jaws of certain death - or scholarship_

 

**Part 1**

 

**  
**

Nathaniel almost doesn't recognize her.

It's been four years since he last saw the Hero of Ferelden, watching her depart from the wreckage of Vigil's Keep before the repairs were even truly begun. If it wasn't for the mabari that she leans against, he doesn't think he would know her from any of the other dozen people, Grey Wardens mostly, who sit or stand or mill about this section of the grand Nevarra City necropolis. She's abandoned the robes he's always seen her in, high-cut and high-collared in the Tevinter style, in favor of flowing fabric. Her hair is down and long, a great mass of curls, barely corralled under a length of pale rose cloth that covers the top of her head and wraps several times around her neck and shoulders.

He would never have expected to see Jane Amell dressed like a Nevarra native, but he supposes that time can change even her.

What hasn't changed, though, is the look of melancholic calm she has. She has sheaves of rough paper balanced on a board on her lap and he watches as she shuffles through them in search of something. They're covered with notes and with dark charcoal rubbings of inscriptions and carvings. Paperwork of a sort seems to follow her, even now that she is no longer the de facto Arlessa of Amaranthine. He smirks, then looks to his companion.

The man - an escort provided by the local warden-commander - is tall and thin. He looks as if he's drowning in his blue and grey mail, and he fidgets slightly where he stands. His colors say that he's taken his Joining, but Nathaniel thinks he can't be more than twenty. It's probably a good thing that he's on courier duty. If he were out in the field, he'd have even more of the scars that already crisscross his narrow face.

"She doesn't always like to be disturbed," the man- boy- oh, what was his name-  _Phineas_ , that's it- whispers.

Nathaniel frowns. "The last time I saw her, she wasn't the angry sort."

"She doesn't get angry." Phineas shrugs. "She gets this sad look. And she always says it's okay, but-"

"It is okay," Nathaniel says, and walks the short distance over to the reclining mage, ignoring Phineas's strained protest about proper introductory form. She doesn't look up even when his shadow falls over her page, and he smirks and crouches down next to her.

"Engrossing, whatever it is."

Jane looks up, startled, and he can't help but twitch as the air around them shifts and shimmers with heat and Veil. But just as quickly as that power surrounds him, it drops again, and Jane smiles. It's not the full grin of old friends meeting, but it is slightly more than he thinks he has a right to expect.

He drops to sit beside her with only the softest creak of his leathers, offering out a hand to the mabari. Shibboleth, he thinks- he's only met the dog once before, when a Grey Warden named Stroud arrived with that Orlesian bard friend of hers and the mabari in tow. Two days later, Jane had set out for Weisshaupt, leaving the reconstruction of Vigil's Keep to him.

Shibboleth snuffles against his hand, wet nose and jowls pressing against his skin just long enough to be uncomfortable. He thinks he feels the lightest slide of teeth against his palm. just before the mabari pulls away and settles down with a hrumph.

"I didn't know you were in the area," Jane says after the exchange is completed. "Are you passing through?"

"No. My assignment's been shifted to Nevarra for a while. I'm on my two weeks' leave of getting to know the place." He can't remember what they talked about those last two days at the Keep. He doesn't remember much of what they talked about before that, except for the veritable chaos that had followed on Anders's courtship of the woman. She's no longer his commander, either, but he still finds himself hoping for some direction from her.

"Are you making a tour of the necropolis, then? I assure you, there are far fewer occasions of possessed corpse uprisings than you'd think." The skin around her eyes crinkles as she smiles again, and he thinks he can see the beginnings of fine lines. They're all getting older, bit by bit.

"Oh, I'm sure the Nevarrans build their walls thick enough to keep them all trapped  _inside_  the tombs."

She laughs, and it's the quiet little laugh that came before Anders. "Indeed they do. We've only come across one or two of the dead in our-" She glances around, then over to Phineas, who's still standing there looking nervous. She nods to him and he points to himself. She gestures back towards the city; he takes the opportunity and hurries out of the gate.

"Your?"

"Investigation. Phineas doesn't like hearing about it - he hates being here, too. Warden-Commander Malvean must be angry with him to send him over here." Jane turns her attention back to her papers, straightening them up and setting them and her writing board aside. "We're performing a service for the Pentaghasts - recording all that we can from the oldest tombs, then clearing them to make sure that there are no wandering corpses trapped inside."

Nathaniel stands when she does, eyeing her with a quirked brow. "They're letting you in?"

"Only into the ones built before they came to power. None of their own. But it's the older ones that worry us, anyway." She resettles her headscarf, then nods to the tomb closest to them. It's old and made of marble and metal. It looks as if there used to be carved friezes on the columns ringing the structure, but rain, wind and age have rubbed them almost smooth. The building itself is far lower to the ground than the others and is built in the round with decorative flanges; a narrow tower that can't contain any rooms at all sticks up like a spoke in the center.

"This one," Jane continues, "is obviously built to resemble Tevinter architecture, which was in fashion several ages before the Pentaghasts sat on the throne. We know that the other Tevinter-style tombs all go into the earth." Jane gestures between other structures as she moves towards it. Nathaniel isn't sure if he should follow until he feels Shibboleth bump his nose against the backs of his knees. "Most of the later Pentaghast tombs either sprawl or tower or both; they don't delve, and so we don't worry. But this style…"

"You think darkspawn may have broken through?"

"It's a distinct possibility, and the reason why we're involved instead of a Chantry delegation or some scholars from Cumberland."

"I'd begun to wonder when the Wardens had turned academic," he says, dryly, watching as she approaches the building and runs her hand over a carved piece of stone that fits snugly into one of the many seemingly ornamental arches.

She looks over her shoulder and shrugs. "You let mages into the Grey Wardens, things get lit on fire and books get written. Or at least, mountains of sketches. We've been out here all season and my office is beginning to fill up."

"Have you found anything yet?" He settles against one of the columns.

"A few ambling skeletons, one revenant that seemed very, very lost… some lyrium offerings that we left in place. No sign of darkspawn yet, thank the Maker."

"You're not itching for a good fight?"

"Not when it would end in us having to somehow bribe the dwarves enough to seal whatever hole they were pouring up through. I don't want a repeat of what happened in Amaranthine."

He grunts in agreement and she leaves the archway, coming to stand before him with her fingers clasped loosely behind her. They're of a height and her eyes no longer slide from his when he tries to catch her gaze. "You've changed," he says, voice dropping.

"Hopefully for the better," she agrees. "Four years of not having to save the world helps, I'll admit. I haven't been able to mess up quite as spectacularly with the stakes so much lower."

"Good," he says, then frowns. "That is-"

She holds up a hand and he stops. "I understand."

"… I wasn't sure how I was going to find you, given what happened with Anders."

"Four years," she reminds him with a thin smile and a shrug. "I've moved on."

Four years ago, she'd left Anders with a promise that she'd come back as soon as she could, and while Nathaniel had stood there watching the exchange, he'd been sure that words of love were finally going to pass the lips of  _one_  of them. They'd danced around it for months.

Neither said it.

Nathaniel had left to visit Denerim to meet with the crown about his and his sister's involvement with his father's crimes a week later. By the time he'd returned, there was a new warden-commander of Ferelden, Justice had disappeared, and Anders had killed a host of templars and fled with half of the Deep Roads maps stored in the keep. He had been the one to pen a letter to Jane while the warden-commander sent word on to Weisshaupt. Jane had never responded.

He looks at her now with some strange mix of pity and pride; the Jane Amell he met in the dungeon of Vigil's Keep might have broken and withdrawn into herself, but the woman before him has so clearly mastered and pushed aside whatever grief she still feels. The Grey Wardens have been good to her. Or, perhaps, this is Anders's legacy, a stronger Jane Amell that has a distant melancholy in her eyes but whose sight and words are clear.

"Good," he repeats.

A myriad of emotions cross her features, but she settles into amusement as she leans towards him and just slightly to his left. He tenses at how near she comes and frowns when she taps at the marble by his head.

"You know," she says, "I think he looks just like you."

"What?"

"This, here. Look." She's pointing to a weathered carving and he squints at it as he moves to stand beside her. "It's a figure who's cropped up a few times on the outside of this one. It might even be his tomb."

"How… charming," he mutters. "And hopefully not prophetic."

She laughs. "Hopefully not. Will you be joining my little expeditionary force, then? You'll have to sit out here all day and draw pictures. Unless you happen to speak an old form of bastardized Tevinter? The Nevarrans went for all the trappings of authenticity back then."

"As they do now." Nathaniel peers at the carving a little longer - it does seem to share something of his nose, he concedes - before turning to Jane. She's close and he fights the urge to take a step back. "It depends on if I'd actually be of any use. I'm sure I could find a corner at the compound to scowl from, if it comes down to it."

"I'd certainly appreciate the help when we open this one, which should be within the week. I usually take a small band in at first, and it'd be nice working with an old- companion." She almost says  _friend_ , he can catch the leading edge of the fricative, but stops herself and puts a little distance between them, covering her retreat by bending down to scratch Shibboleth behind one ear. The mabari's leg thumps happily against the ground. "It'll be just like at- oh, but you weren't there."

Nathaniel waits for her to clarify, crossing his arms over his chest. It takes a moment, but then she looks up and smiles sheepishly. "During the Blight, I spent about a week in an old Tevinter ruin, complete with tombs, in the Brecilian Forest. That one was particularly crowded. Werewolves on top of everything else, and there was- a lot else."

"Ah." He glances back towards the city, a dark sprawl on the horizon that contrasts sharply with the glimmering white and metal splendor all around them. "I don't think you'd told me that story before. But you do seem more given to rambling these days."

"Do I? Oh, sorry. I haven't- really had many people to talk to. Well, aside from giving orders to them." She's moving back to her original spot and he finds himself watching her as she crouches to gather up her work.

"I think you just gave  _me_  orders, back in our 'good old days', Amell," he says with a wondering shake of his head.

She shrugs and casts a wry smile over her shoulder at him before setting off in the vague direction of the city. "Yes, but  _you_  watched me kill the Architect and don't look at my sideways trying to figure out just how I managed to kill the archdemon without dying. It's refreshing. It's like… seeing a piece of home, transported here."

"Me. Home." He snorts.

Color rises to her sunkissed cheeks. "I never said it made sense. Come on- I'll introduce you to the rest of the crew, and we can go over the plans for dealing with whatever's in there over dinner."

She may not be spending her time saving the world and he may not have the fondest memories of her leadership, but like before there's  _something_  convincing in the way she speaks, the determined set of her shoulders. He finds himself falling into step behind her with surprising ease and just hopes that, this time, there won't be any trips to haunted, soggy towns with demons crawling all over.

* * *

It ends up being three days before they manage to get any work done. Darkspawn are sighted fifteen miles out from the city and Nathaniel is drafted into the detachment that goes out to take care of them. He comes back the next night, and the conversation tends towards old adventures instead of new ones. The more he draws small, nostalgic smiles from her, the more Jane forgets what it is they're supposed to be talking about.

She doesn't remember enjoying his conversation this much back in Amaranthine, but she isn't about to shy away from the odd camaraderie that's beginning to grow between them. They stumble around the more awkward topics - Eileen Bensley, Anders, her decision to protect the city at the expense of his childhood home - and focus more on complaining about Oghren, wondering where Velanna has disappeared off to, reminiscing about Sigrun. He tells her about pushing into the Deep Roads, finally traveling to Weisshaupt, even visiting Vyrantium, and in return she tells him about the year she'd spent in Rivain helping to establish a Grey Warden presence as far north as Seere, and the tense moment when she had offered the Joining cup to a Tal-Vashoth.

By the time they've covered three of the four years they've been apart, the common room of the compound is empty and Jane's eyes are too heavy to stay open.

The third night, though, they fare better. It helps that she insists they eat in her small office. All of her maps and papers are there, after all, and the warm din of the common room isn't quite as noticeable, even with the door left open. Food is quickly abandoned in favor of spreading out a diagram of the last tomb she explored, and she pauses in her explanations only to refill their glasses of peach wine.

"I didn't think you drank," Nathaniel says when she pours herself a second glass.

She pointedly looks out the door to where loud cheers are erupting at semi-regular intervals. "I've picked up a few habits while here. It's hard not to."

"You resisted Oghren just fine."

She rolls her eyes and takes a sip of the sweet, slightly spiced drink. "That wasn't too hard to do. Anyway," she says, shifting forward and gesturing to the map, "the tombs from this period usually go about five stories below the ground. A few have gone a little lower, but not by much. They're all trapped to some extent, but the paths are generally direct. From the research we've been doing, it seems like the tombs have always been built so that the body can be brought into it later, which works to our advantage - they're totally navigable. No chambers sealed off by ten feet of rock on all sides."

"I'm assuming you'll want me to handle the traps?" The look he's giving her, the intense, slightly distrustful look, is familiar if not entirely appreciated. He doesn't seem disappointed in her this time around, which Jane appreciates, but he's still watching carefully.

She glances away and takes another sip, feeling it go to her cheeks in a bloom of heat. "Mm, or we can just try not to trigger them. But yes, it would be- helpful. Though it's not why I want you there."

"Old traveling companion, right."

"Exactly." Another sip, and then she's refilling her glass. She may feel more comfortable around him now than four years ago, but his judgment is still nearly overwhelming and even when it's meant jokingly, it takes her back to Amaranthine just after she'd almost gotten Anders killed. She reminds herself firmly that there is absolutely no reason to sit with her palms flat on the desk and wait out a lecture.

Instead, she stands and comes around to his side of the desk, leaning over him to point out some details. "The traps will slow us down even if there aren't any skeletons to disassemble. We'll be in for at least two days. I'll have them seal the door behind us."

"And how do we get out again?" He leans back in the loveseat he'd dragged over to the desk, then bats the trailing edge of her headscarf away from his face.

She shifts to sitting on the arm of the couch so that she isn't directly above him. "Magic," she says, simply, and waggles her fingers. "Very useful stuff."

He snorts. "Indeed. And if you're injured…?"

Jane stares at the map for a long moment, then bites at her lower lip. "… It hasn't happened yet."

"That is a horrible excuse." Nathaniel sighs and her stomach sinks and twists. Half of her glass of wine slides down her throat before she has time to think about it. She's focusing on how the burn feels very similar to how she's blushing from shame when he speaks again, saying, "You should know better than to let a task rest only on one person."

It's the softness in his voice that drags her gaze back to him. He's leaning against the other arm of his seat, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, watching her from over the rim of his own glass- which, she notes, is also half empty.

"I know," she concedes, quietly.

"It'd be easy enough to have them open the door again at a set time and send in a larger party to find us if we're not waiting for them. Depending on how tightly the door seals again, we could also run some sort of thread out to them and work out a signaling system." He shrugs, taking a sip. "I'd approve of either, as a back-up plan to your own."

"A gracious mutiny, then," Jane laughs, some of her tension falling away. She finishes her glass and sets it aside, pursing her lips and studying the map again. "Do you think we should take Shibboleth?" The mabari in question harumphs from his bed behind her desk before going back to sleep. "He doesn't like the dark. I think it reminds him too much of the Deep Roads."

"Why would you take him, then?"

"Well, it's just been the two of us for all the other tombs." She can feel Nathaniel fix that judging, strained look on her again and she tries to fend it off by grabbing up the bottle and topping off his wine. It doesn't help, and it leaves her leaning slightly over him, frozen. "How is that any different than us going alone?"

"I have thumbs," Nathaniel says.

"This is true."

"And I'm not afraid of the dark." He's staring her down and it's working almost too well; she barely manages not to spill wine onto the floor, righting the angle of the bottle at the last minute.

She colors and tries to cover it up by saying, "That's a good thing."

"And…" He trails off, frowning, and she slowly, uneasily smiles.

"You can't think of anything else, can you?"

"… The thumbs are important," he mutters, drinking deeply and looking away.

Jane laughs, finally moving again and setting the bottle aside. She considers pouring herself another glass but she can already feel the edges of softness, her skin beginning to tingle just a little. Instead, she begins to stand up.

Nathaniel's hand settles over hers where it's braced against the tall back of the couch and she hesitates. "Yes?"

He seems to be struggling to find what he wants to say and she spends the time trying with increasing determination to ignore how warm his hand is on hers. It's been several years since she felt skin against skin in any intentional way and wine always makes her want-  _need_  physical contact. But this is Nathaniel Howe whose only emotions regarding her have been disappointment, irritation, and, at best, bemusement, so there's no point in-

"Sit down."

She's about to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a shaky exhale. He watches her expectantly. When she finally shrugs and settles onto the cushion next to him, she's all too aware of how their legs are touching just slightly. The seat is cramped the way he's sitting, legs still stretched out an angle, and he doesn't move.

"So," he says, and she watches as his tongue peeks out between his lips. He swallows before looking back to the map. "Two days. How much gear are we taking down with us, then?"

"Ah-" Jane forces herself to stop watching him and instead leans forward again, leaning her forearms against the desk. She can't see him from this angle; it helps her focus. "Dried fruit, some very dense, very hard biscuits. Water will be the biggest thing, and bedrolls, but if it looks like the tomb is empty, we can set up a base camp and leave things while we confirm."

"Torches? Paper to record all of those carvings you're so interested in?"

She looks back over her shoulder at him, holds up a hand, and flames jump and dance along her fingertips. "And no, we'll record once we're sure it's clear, when we bring in the rest of the team."

He ducks his head and she thinks she can see a sheepish smile twisting his lips. "Right. That all makes sense."

She laughs and turns her attention back to the diagram. "I do sometimes know what I'm doing." Sometimes is not right now, however; she isn't sure what to make of how he shifts his leg against hers or how he settles his hand on the small of her back, leaning forward to join her against the desk. His touch is light and hesitant and when she twitches, he begins to pull it away. Jane glances at him and offers a shy, confused smile.

He settles his hand against her again and says, "Yes, you do. Apologies for doubting you." There's no censure there, no sarcasm.

"Um," she says, blushing to the tips of her ears and pulling her lower lip between her teeth to worry at it. "I- thanks? I try-" She's not sure exactly what she's trying to say, except that the unexpected praise makes her want to grin uncontrollably. Nathaniel's approval feels like a victory.

His hands, meanwhile, feel warm and uncertain as he touches his fingers to her cheek, then to her chin. Her mouth falls open just as he takes a deep breath and leans in to press his lips to hers. She mumbles something surprised before responding, lifting a hand to tangle it in his hair, and his hands find her waist and-

They tumble off the couch, overextended, and Jane yelps as her head thuds against the floor.

Nathaniel sits up immediately, mumbling apologies and helping her up. Jane laughs, awkwardly, and reaches ups to heal whatever damage has been done. They regain their feet and stand there, staring while they barely look at one another.

"Um-" Nathaniel says.

"I didn't know-" Jane says.

They stop and stare again. It's Nathaniel who speaks first, uncertainty making his voice low and gruff. At least, she thinks it's uncertainty."Maybe- maybe we shouldn't- talk about that. Again."

"Oh." Disappointment and relief both shoot through her and she frowns.

He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

She shakes her head, reaching out to touch his arm and then letting her hand drop before it comes within an inch. "No! No, it was- fine. I…" Jane trails off, looking to him helplessly.

"We should- probably turn in. So we're ready to go in the morning," he mumbles.

"Right. Right, that's probably a good idea." Jane pulls her headscarf free so that she can run a hand through her hair, mimicking his nervous motions now. She watches as he picks up his glass, then sets it down again, then moves for the door. She thinks that maybe she should say something else, ask him to stay, but she's always been bad at this, and so she stays silent until the door closes behind him.

She turns to Shibboleth, then, who is just beginning to stir from his nap.

"… So, that just happened," she says, wrapping her hair back up. Shibboleth whines in confusion and she shakes her head, beginning to gather up her papers and clean up her office.

* * *

Nathaniel nearly thanks the Maker aloud when he and Jane come to stand before the tomb's door the next morning and she hasn't said a word about the night before. He's still not sure what prompted him to kiss her. He would blame it on the alcohol completely except that he remembers feeling very deliberate about it, remembers how she looked when he'd praised her just a little, remembers how it was only surprise that made him flee the room.

No. Better to blame it on the alcohol; she is his commander and, historically, not a very good one. And Jane Amell's relationships always end tragically.

But there's little point in comparing himself to the king of Ferelden or an apostate Warden, especially not while Jane and several of the other mages present in the necropolis pull the towering slab of white stone free of its arch just far enough that Nathaniel can heft their supplies and slip into the gloom. Jane follows, circling around the stone with her hands raised and glowing a faint violet. She backs in to the dark with him, shouting out commands, until the stone settles back into place.

Nathaniel can see just a little by the remaining glow on Jane's hand, and he uses it to hunt for the torch he's brought along. Magic may have been enough for her and her mabari, but if it is to be this dark-

The darkness falls away as if it never was. Jane is closer than he thought and leaning in, looking at him with an amused, slightly questioning expression.

"Didn't trust me?"

"If you're tired or injured-" he begins, his own surprised look turning quickly to a glare.

"You're right," she interrupts, holding up one of her hands. It's only then that he notices that the light isn't coming from her. Not directly, anyway; a sphere roughly a foot across hovers in the air before them. There's a faint glow around Jane's left index finger that mimics the color and light of their lantern, but it's the only sign that it's connected to her at all.

He notices, too, the sad little smile that touches her lips as she speaks and just as quickly fades. His glare, in turn, falls to a frown as he wonders just why that twist of her lips makes him feel guilty. For every time in Amaranthine that he corrected her, overrode her, ignored her, he never felt uncertain or apologetic. It had always needed to be done.

Jane shrugs, looking away from him and to their light. "It would just be better to keep your torch until we absolutely need it. I doubt you have more than one, since you snuck that into our gear."

He grunts in response, turning to inspect their surroundings. Quiet observation suits him better than arguing or apologizing, and his eyes scan the length of the walls that are illuminated. They're made of the same white stone as the exterior and carved in the same style, endless processions of figures bearing gifts and leading armies. There is paint here, too, on some of the panels: brilliant blues and vibrant oranges, set off by gilding and inlays. The hall begins to glimmer as Jane brings a light closer, coming to stand beside him.

She makes a pleased little sound and he glances over. She points to one of the figures.

"It's you again."

He rolls his eyes but can't help his small, rough laugh. "So it is." This carving is far less worn than the one outside and he has to admit now that there really is some resemblance. Even beyond the nose, they share similarly shaped ears, a slightly furrowed brow, long hair. Even the eyes are similar; the carving has grey pearls for irises. Nothing else is painted, though the armor is gilded. The figure even has a bow slung on his back.

"Eerie," he says, finally pulling away and looking down the corridor. "So, down this corridor and-"

"You know, this might not be his tomb after all. Or at least, not just his tomb." Jane has come close enough to the wall that her fingers now hover just above the surface. "There's another figure that repeats just as often."

"Jane."

She looks up, then glances down sheepishly. "Right. Theorizing comes later." She goes back over to her pack and hefts it up. He does the same, watching as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth. "Down this corridor we should come to at least one set of branching passages. They'll go to secondary tomb spaces, possibly for servants or animals. Then there will probably be a spiral staircase going down at least two stories, and then another series of passages. The stairs to the very bottom will be hidden."

"And that's why I traded the maps for this torch." He smirks at Jane's surprised look. She laughs, that uneasy little sound, and fiddles with her headscarf.

"Guess I'm good for something after all, hm?"

"Lightening pack loads. Something to be proud of, for sure."

Her little smile tightens in response, and he curses inwardly as she sets off down the passage.

The walls are decorated down their entire length, and when Jane sets the light hovering a foot above their heads so as not to blind them, Nathaniel can see intricate geometric carvings casting complex shadows that make it almost seem as if they move. More than once, he has to nudge Jane's shoulder or cough to pull her away from a new inscription, a decorated floor tile, or just the ambiance of the room.

He's not entirely sure how she managed to explore the other tombs without simply sitting down and staring wondrously around for days on end.

When he asks, finally, she shrugs.

"When it was just me and Shibboleth, I didn't really look. He wanted to get out, so I pushed through as fast as I could. Head down. Like in the Wending Woods."

He bites back a comment about just  _how_  far she'd kept her head down (practically to the Deep Roads, really) during their first foray into the Wending Woods. It's hard; he can still remember Anders falling with a genlock sword through his gut and the world freezing all around them as Jane panicked. He manages to only make a noncommittal noise as he pushes past her and takes the lead.

There's a chance, he realizes a few yards further down the hall, that she might end up distracted and he wouldn't even notice, but a glance back shows her following close at his heels. She's learned, then, that she doesn't always need to lead. It's probably for the best.

Except that he can't shake the feeling that it's more that Jane's realized she  _shouldn't_  lead, and that it's all his fault.

Still, it's probably for the best.

There are sconces at regular intervals along the walls and some still hold dessicated wood. He glances to Jane and points to them, but she shakes her head.

"Did that once. The room… well. It was suddenly a very black, very ashy room."

The cross passage is there just where Jane has predicted it, the carvings on the walls falling away as the juncture approaches. The geometric patterns from the ceiling replace them, trailing down the walls like vines, then meeting at the floor in the center of the hall's widening, where it intersects with four other passages and continues along down in a noticeable slope.

Jane sets her pack down and sends the glow sphere to bob in the center of the room.

"Feel anything?" she asks, frowning.

He narrows his eyes and inclines his head, listening for the telltale buzz around the edges of his consciousness that means  _darkspawn_. He stretches out along tendrils of his own resonance, then pulls back, shaking his head.

"Nothing. Should we head down?"

"Not just yet." She peers down one of the side corridors. "There could still be possessed dead. The main passage could also be trapped and need a switch somewhere else."

Nathaniel nods, walking to the center of the room they're in, his feet slightly unsteady on the carved floor. There are too many crannies and ridges for his comfort. "With the size of this tomb, those halls can't be too long. Should we-"

"Split up?" She stares owlishly at him. "That's- a horrible idea."

"It's more efficient."

"Only if those halls are completely empty and we're willing to waste your torch now."

He grunts, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to let his embarrassment show. "Well,  _commander_ , if you're willing to waste the time inste-"

He's cut off by the sound of stone on stone and the clang of metal. Old iron grates drop in front of the exits to the room and as he looks up, the dust of grinding rock falls into his eyes.

"Oh, Maker's mercy," Jane breathes. She runs to one of the carved walls and shouts over her shoulder, "Don't just stand there, look for a button!"

"A-"

"A button! In one of the carvings, there'll be something you can- you can press or twist and if the mechanism is still working, it'll send the ceiling back up."

"Have you done this before?"

"No, Phineas did- that's why he hates coming down here. Now, stop standing there and look!"

Nathaniel shakes himself and drops to his knees, crawling across the floor, fingers searching even as his legs protest at being prodded by the raised designs. "Can't you just- use magic? To push it back up?"

"I can try, but I can't guarantee anything! It might be warded!"

"It's  _ages old_ , Jane!"

"Since when have you been studying ward duration?" Jane snaps, turning away from the wall she's searching to glare at him.

He bites back a growled swear, redoubling his efforts to find the littlest difference. Some of the stone crumbles at his touch, and he glances up with growing fear at the slowly descending ceiling. It couldn't have crossed more than half a foot, but the room feels so much smaller, so much closer already.

There's a flare of sickly yellow-green from the corner of his eye. He turns and Jane's there, hands raised up, staff in one hand while the fingers of her other dance so quickly he can barely follow them. The glow sphere goes out, plunging them into darkness except for the light surrounding Jane, and all he can focus on is the concentration twisting her face so much that the shadows make her look barely human.

The grinding stops.

Nathaniel exhales and sits back on his heels as Jane brings their light back to life. She's panting and her headscarf has fallen down around her shoulders. She looks over at him and smiles thinly.

"That just leaves the gates."

"At least we can search at a more leisurely pace this time." He shakes his head, turning back to the floor. He looks it over, searching for anything that looks out of the ordinary. He's crossing the room at a crouch, in pursuit of an inlaid stone that glints a dull grey in the growing light of their sphere, when a loud groan shakes the room.

"Oh,  _no_ ," Jane whispers, the sound almost lost.

He looks up.

The ceiling is descending faster than before, its screech of stone on stone louder and all-consuming. There's something new, too, extending past the intricate patterns and glinting dangerously. Nathaniel swears.

"Where did the  _spikes_  come from!"

"Bad reaction to me working on the ward!" Jane shouts as she practically runs along the walls, hands searching. She drops her staff. The light begins to die again and he yells her name; it surges bright again. He scrambles across the floor, looking between the stone, her, the ceiling above.

It's getting closer.

They can't have more than a minute left before the first spikes reach the top of Jane's head. Jane is saying something, something he isn't sure is even in Common but is definitely something old, maybe even older than the Chant. She's stumbling over herself. He forces himself not to watch, not to care about anything other than his own hide.

His eyes fix on that dull grey glint.

His hands and knees protest as he frantically chases that tiny glimpse and he grits his teeth hard enough that his jaw aches in time with his hammering pulse. His leathers are little protection when he's moving so fast, his body digging into the stone for leverage. There's blood on his hands and it's not that the stone is sharp; it's that he's pushing hard enough to break his own skin.

Jane screams and the world explodes in fire just as he slams his hand down on the tiny grey pearl.

At first all sound dies. There's only ragged breathing from the corner of the room and the roar of blood in his ears. And then there's the ebb and flow of awareness of Jane, the darkness in her veins calling to his.

And then there's the grind of stone on stone and Nathaniel almost screams, pressing himself flush to the floor.

But the sound grows just a tiny bit softer with each passing moment, and when he works up the courage, the will, to roll onto his back, the sharp glinting silverite points are retreating. The groan of the ceiling is soon joined by an echoing, metallic creak as the gates lift up.

The air is hot and acrid from the dancing fire that had filled it only moments before and Nathaniel coughs as he pulls himself to his feet. He swallows hard when he sees Jane crumpled in a heap of smoldering fabric in the corner of the room, her staff forgotten yards away. There's the faintest hint of blood seeping out into the channels of the stone.

The light goes out before he's halfway to her.

"Jane!" he shouts, slowing his pace. The last thing she needs is for him to run straight into or fall ontop of her.

Her voice is soft and unsteady, but he clearly hears her mumble, "Alive."

He moves towards her voice, then drops to one knee when he thinks he can hear her breathing. "Not dying?" He reaches out a hand and finds her too-close, only an inch at most from his boot. He shifts back.

"I don't- think so." She coughs and shudders beneath his hand. "Just a moment. I can-"

The sphere begins to emit a pale blue glow and he watches her sit up. He keeps his hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

He thinks he can see a thin smile, but it disappears fast, and his eyes fix instead on the trail of blood seeping from her hairline and down her temple.

She closes her eyes, touches her tongue to her lips, drawing his eyes back down. The skin there is cracked and he hisses at the sight; her cheeks look flushed, but when he lifts his other hand to her jaw, he can feel them radiating heat.

"Just a moment," she repeats.

"I can wait."

Her lips quirk into a smile for just a second before she hisses and lets it fall. Her eyes open and she furrows her brow. She lifts a hand, twitches her fingers once, twice, old movements that bring spells to mind and fruition even when her thoughts race. Faded green light envelops her and she sighs, falling forward.

He catches her, awkwardly, and tries to shift so that she can lean against him.

Her fingers flick again. More green light, this time stronger, and her lips heal over before his eyes. The room grows brighter and less blue.

"Are you badly injured?" he murmurs.

She hums thoughtfully. "No. No, not badly. Just- tired."

He waits.

She twists a little to look up at him. "… the- are you burned? I didn't mean to do that, but sometimes if I'm very scared-"

"I remember the torches in Vigil's Keep," he reminds her. He had never put it together before, but he isn't surprised. He's so used to seeing her boil and burn their enemies that it makes sense she would use it as a last line of defense- or make it dance when Anders had her up against a wall.

No, he doesn't want to think about that.

She's laughing, leaning heavily against him now. "I'm just a bit tired. Give me five minutes and I'll be back up. Promise."

* * *

She could probably have used about ten minutes, to be honest. Or an hour. Or a good night's rest.

But she dutifully picks herself up after five, murmuring abundant  _thank you_ s to Nathaniel, who, now that his fear has worn off, looks awkward and confused. He relaxes when she's standing again, and she wonders if he might fall onto his back in relief.

He doesn't, of course, but the mental image makes bow her head to hide a smile.

She focuses on strengthening the link between her and the light, which has lost its blue tinge (if asked, she wouldn't be able to explain why it had been blue in the first place) but has not grown notably brighter. It sputters and she frowns. She must be more tired than she thinks.

She's brought lyrium, though, just a little bit, and she picks up her staff as she makes for her pack. It would be just as easy to reopen the cut on top of her scalp, courtesy of a spike that had caught her when she'd turned frantically to see Nathaniel in those last moments, and weave the blood into the link, but she held off.

That waits for the direst of moments. Until then, she won't use that part of herself. Nathaniel doesn't need to see it.

She reaches her pack and fumbles it open, fishing around inside for one of the small vials she'd had prepared. She's never been good at herbalism and she doesn't trust herself handling the stuff; it sings its siren call even in dust form.

She glances back to Nathaniel, who is retrieving his own pack (and quiver, she notes- there are arrows everywhere around where he had been standing when the trap had triggered). Jane quickly puts the vial to her lips and tilts the contents in her mouth.

It's impossible to restrain her quiet moan, and Nathaniel's head jerks up, eyes fixing on her. Her vision goes blurry and her fingers curl tightly around the vial, then go limp. It falls to the floor and bounces with a faint ringing.

In that year she traveled with Alistair and brought down the archdemon, she'd done this countless times. She'd had to drink deep. She could have pulled power from corpses, but in those days she'd shied away from her affinity with the dead. She had learned how to cast from her blood at Redcliffe but had kept it secret. Wynne would have been horrified, after what she'd been through. And Alistair-

So she'd drunk deep of lyrium when they had it, and they'd accumulated so much in Orzammar.

Now, the feeling is familiar, overwhelming and glorious, and she feels her mind dance upon the Veil. It never fails to make her smile.

Nathaniel clears his throat and she comes back down, albeit hazy and soft around the edges. "Enjoy that?"

"It's been a while," she says, shrugging as she feels her cheeks begin to burn. She twitches her left index finger, curls it under, and the light flares to full life. "There we go."

He comes to her side, crouching and scooping up the vial. "You know, for all that you and Anders got excited over that massive store of lyrium in Kal'Hirol, I don't think I remember seeing you take much."

"And you won't now, either," she evades, lifting the glass from his fingers and tucking it and its stopper back into her pack. "Come on. We'll leave our things here for now. Four hopefully empty hallways and then we can go downstairs."

"I'm not sure I'm looking forward to it, if all the rooms are like this one." He glances up.

"There's usually one major trap and a few small ones. Granted, I've never been in a tomb with one this… intense, but we should be fine. Come on."

She notices she's holding her hand out to him only when he looks down at it, frowns, and then reaches out hesitantly to take it. She coughs and lets hers drop and he does the same. She busies herself pulling her hair back over her shoulders and rewinding her scarf as she sets off for one of the hallways, his soft footfalls behind her the only other sound.

She's moved on to twitching at her sleeves and vest by the time he breaks the silence.

"… So, the next time a mage tells me something is a bad idea, I think I'll listen."

"Well, we've learned something, then," she says, looking back at him with a surprised smile. He'd gone back to being critical after last night's awkwardness, but a near death experience seems to be mellowing him again. Her shoulders relax.

"Trust that the mage knows about magic."

"And I'll trust that the rogue knows something about finding hidden switches."

He smiles at that.

They reach the end of the hallway where it widens out into a room much like the center chamber. The geometric patterns don't leave the ceiling, however, and the walls are painted as well as carved. Instead of processions of figures, there are stylized trees that stretch the height of the room. A few strands of emerald beads still hang from the ceiling like trailing vines, but the majority of the strings have long since rotted away, leaving stones scattered over the ground.

There are also three skeletons, long dead, and she crouches by each of them.

"They're quiet," she says.

"I've never understood," Nathaniel says, leaning in the doorway, "why the Nevarrans choose not to burn their dead."

"I've always thought that it started out to insult the Orlesians.  _We'll follow the Chant differently, so there_ , that sort of thing."

"But it leaves them so open to- to the hungry dead. There are enough of them from unknown deaths and battles, why make the problem worse?"

Jane shrugs. "The majority of the common people still burn their dead. Embalming and burying are status symbols. After all, if you can't afford to build a tomb complex, what's the point in preserving the body? Only those aspiring to power or those in power attempt it."

Nathaniel exhales sharply in response, then turns away. "Well, if they're resting, then let's get to the others."

They walk side by side this time; the halls are wide enough and Jane finds it far more comforting. She's still a bit shaken from the collapse in the main room and her head is still fogged from her lyrium dose. She finds herself humming, softly, as they walk.

Nathaniel frowns. She stops.

The next hallway is much the same. It stretches about as far and ends in a widened room. This room is painted to look like it's surrounded by towering cliffs and the floor is covered in inlaid semi-precious pebbles that catch her attention with how they shift and glint. Two small side hallways branch from the room and Nathaniel moves to investigate one.

"Empty?" she asks, and he grunts in response. "Oh, good. Hopefully it'll all be like that." She's smiling and moving to the other crevice-like passage when she hears a low hiss.

She stiffens.

"Nathaniel?"

She hears him shout and curse and she wheels just in time to see him fall backwards out of the hall. He's streaked with something dark that smells like corruption and death and she looks around, hand going to her staff. "Nathaniel, where-"

" _Look up_ ," he whispers.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> - _in which Jane Amell and Nathaniel Howe meet a coward of a boy_ -

" _Look up_ ," he whispers, and when Jane does, the room goes cold with fear and a sudden rippling explosion of ice.

There are  _things_  crawling from the hall he came out of, clinging to the walls, spidering along the ceiling, things that were once human but now only echo their living forms. Nevarran embalming has left them with flesh despite their wait of ages, skin tight to their skulls. She sees, as she falls to a crouch before Nathaniel as he finds his feet again, the gaping wounds along their throats that speak of sacrifice. Her light, hovering in the center of the room, flickers before she grabs control of herself and sends it back into the hallway, casting eerie shadows in the room.

They'll need to get out quickly.

She forms a shield around them both with a twist of her staff as the first hissing corpses fall down upon them. She feels the force of them reverberating down the wood of her staff, against her palms and in her veins, and she grits her teeth and pushes. The wall holds, and Nathaniel has enough time to nock and arrow and draw back.

"Pull back," he says, and she nods, jaw clenched, and begins to shift, slowly rising to her feet to bring the shield up higher still. She scans the room. There are at least ten, possibly more lurking in the dark. There are three skeletons in the other room, as well, and she glances quickly to the door.

Nothing- yet.

When they have backed to the door and into the hallway, Jane whispers, "Now?" and Nathaniel answers, "Now," and she lets the shield fall and pulls fire from the air down into the room.

The earlier ice has slowed the corpses and they have a momentary reprieve as their enemies twitch and begin to burn, Jane dropping back to a crouch and Nathaniel letting arrow after arrow fly. Three possessed bodies go down with arrows embedded in their slit throats. Another falls, smoldering, and Jane breathes a spell that sends a blue glow crawling out along the floor, spiraling around bodies and pulling back threads of the Fade, bolstering her reserves of strength. Nathaniel's bow creaks as he draws back and she sees his target, staggering towards them. A drumming of her fingers along her staff and whispered words that pull on power that still makes her stomach churn, and the trap is set.

She nods, the arrow flies, and as the head of it punctures the corpse's chest, the creature convulses and comes apart with a thousand tiny holes, the room filling with the splash and stench of embalming oils and dissolved, fetid flesh that burns and eats away on impact.

"Fill the room," Nathaniel growls as another wave approaches, staggering under the assault, and Jane shakes her head.

"The carvings-"

"To the Void with the carvings, Commander!" he snaps, and it's her title that makes her nod. Duty overrides academic nerves, and she thrusts her staff forward, gives it a quarter turn, and slides power along it until it explodes in a tempest inside the room.

The howls are unholy and she reminds herself that they are only demons wearing the skin of men.

She doesn't know how Nathaniel can see through the pulsing arcs of lightning, but he looses two more arrows before letting his bow arm drop. She can hear him breathing raggedly, can hear her breath matching his as she slowly rises back to her feet. The light behind them has grown dim, but rallies again when she smiles grimly and nods.

"Well," she says.

"That was too many," he says, and she shrugs.

"But no darkspawn. Thank the Maker for small blessings."

"No, we only have walking corpses and possibly shades, too," he grumbles, rolling his drawing shoulder and wriggling his fingers. "My favorite."

"Careful," she says as she begins to pick her way back into the room, "or you'll gain a sense of humor."

He snorts and follows her, stepping over charred flesh. He nocks an arrow but does not draw, remaining at the ready but calm. Jane looks over her shoulder and offers him a wan little smile. With every step, the blue flow of shredded Veil clinging to the recently-possessed corpses flows to her, bolstering her in a way much more manageable than the lyrium had.

Two turns around the room, and she shrugs. "I would say that's all of them."

"For now. This is quite a ways from 'a few ambling skeletons'." He leads the way from the room and towards the central chamber. "Do you think we should go back for support?"

Jane considers with a sigh, then shakes her head. "No. Now that we know that they're here, I can't imagine we'll be overwhelmed like that again."

"That's twice now we've almost died." He looks over his shoulder with a firm stare and she tries not to be cowed by it.

"It is not. We have both faced worse, Nathaniel."

"Jane-"

"We move on. If you want, I'll take point-"

"And lose you to another head injury? No, I will take my chances." His put-upon expression is touched by a very faint, very uneasy smile, and when she blinks it is gone. He looks ahead once more, and they press forward.

* * *

He disarms two simple traps before they reach the next room - empty and quiet except for the crumbling of stone when Jane touches yet another carving. Her fascination with them is making him uneasy, not least because it's dangerous now that they know the structure is trapped and all but teaming with undead.

He tells her this and she pulls away from the wall to help him clear the room properly.

In the few days since he arrived in Nevarra City, he has begun to refer to her as Jane more often than Commander. It arose at first out of a growing familiarity. Now it reflects how little he continues to think of her as a leader. She does not lead and doesn't seem to want to, and so he finds himself in the awkward position of calling her by name in every instance except when he needs her to obey him. He wants to trust her and would follow if she led, but she defers and smiles and he finds himself taking point and making decisions far more than he would have liked.

But a part of him enjoys it, if only so that he can keep her out of harm's way again. Memories of her bleeding and shuddering, leaning weakly against him, keep him on edge. He has seen her in worse state- but he can't recall it with that much clarity or care.

All he can remember about that shared past is that he did not feel this way then.

It's in the fourth chamber where he hears a noise, long before she does, and it's his bowstring being drawn taut that catches her attention. Jane holds up a hand and, despite his misgivings, he hesitates.

A figure steps out of the darkness.

It's a boy, not more than twelve or thirteen, not yet grown up long and unfilled, his face still round and his eyes wide. His skin is grey and sallow, though, and a long, angry cut crosses his throat.

He cannot be living, and Nathaniel keeps his arrow trained between the boy's eyes.

"Please-" the boy begins. Jane steps forward with a shake of her head.

"No. Do not start, demon."

"Commander, we do not need to speak to it," Nathaniel says, stepping to the side when she blocks his shot. "It's just another trick."

"It always is," she concedes. "But this one will speak; I want to know why it's here. How long have you been here, demon?"

"I'm no demon," the boy says, lifting a small hand to the slash along his throat.

"Do not try my patience." There's an edge in Jane's voice that makes Nathaniel's lips quirk up in quiet approval; she may not lead often, but when she is firm, she is immovable. "I feel the Fade on you from here." Her fingers twitch along her staff and the air feels heavier.

The boy backs up a step, both hands raised before him now.

"I'm no demon," he repeats. "But I am of the Fade- that's true. I'm not a demon, though-"

"A spirit?" Nathaniel asks, lowly, dropping to his voice to a whisper as he says to Jane, "Like Justice?"

Jane does not respond, instead approaching the creature and circling it. "How long have you been here?"

"A long time. Since soon after the doors were closed."

"Why?"

"The activity. There was so much." The boy- spirit- folds his fingers together and presses them, laced, against his throat. Nathaniel grimaces at the sight, flesh gaping for a moment at the old wound before it's covered completely. "A great funeral. I wanted to be a part of it.

"But I hesitated, and when I came here and took this body, the doors were already closed."

Jane is behind the creature and looks to Nathaniel over his head. She shakes her head, a tiny movement, and shrugs her shoulders.

"What are you, then? What sort of spirit?" Nathaniel asks, rolling his shoulder and resettling his grip on the bowstring. "What other than a demon would crave that activity?" He recalls Justice explaining the nature of spirits; this creature does not seem particularly just, nor faithful, nor valorous. His frown intensifies.

"Cowardice," the boy responds, voice small and tinny, and he looks down and toes at the floor as if he were truly a mortal child.

Nathaniel feels his stomach twist and his fingers itch to let fly. "Commander," he warns.

Jane shakes her head. "Nathaniel, lower your weapon."

And he does, allowing her to lead even as he prays to the Maker that it is the right decision. He watches as Jane circles back around, then walks straight up to the creature and kneels before him, setting her staff down beside her and lifting both hands. They crackle with power and the boy yelps and steps back. She reaches for him and he throws his arms up in front of his face, crouching down. He trembles.

"I have never heard," Jane says, gaze fixed, "of a Spirit of Cowardice. Justice, yes. Valor, yes- but just as demons epitomize our weaknesses, spirits champion our strengths. Do not test me, or I will send you back across the Veil no matter what you are."

She uses the same voice that she used to face down the Architect, the same voice she used when she told them all that they would stay to protect the city of Amaranthine. It is the same voice, he imagines, that she used when faced with the Archdemon atop Fort Drakon.

It is the voice she used when she sent the King of Ferelden away from her.

It's a voice she rarely speaks with and he rarely likes, but in that moment, his approval and pride swell to a level that unsettles him, and he swallows, fighting to look at their potential enemy and not at her.

The creature in the guise of a dead little boy is still shaking, finally peeking through his fingers. "There are others," he says. "Not the best and not the worst- but the other traits. The ones that matter. Cowardice determines a creature just as much as valor does."

"Cowardice is the absence of valor," Nathaniel says, voice flat and low.

"Maybe," the spirit agrees. "But that does not change what I am."

It's difficult to deny that, even if it still sits wrong with him and he can't draw his gaze away, fearing every moment that the boy will turn to a beast. "Commander?" he asks, with not so much as a sideways glance, fingers itching to draw his bow once more, to nock an arrow and send it through his skull. A blow will kill a demon as well as it kills any man.

Jane does not respond, except to take up her staff once more and rise to her feet. "Cowardice, come to a great funeral?"

"I do not fear crowds - just what they might do," the boy says, hands dropping away. "I couldn't approach the center of mourning, but the revelry that those that did not feel grief engaged in? The hired dancers, the musicians? I wanted only to be a part of it, safe among them." And just like a true, live boy, he toes at the ground.

Nathaniel can hear his jaw creak as he grinds his teeth together.

He steps back so that he can see Jane without taking his eyes from Cowardice. Her shoulders are straight and her fingers flex and shift on the wood of her staff, but little by little she relents.

"Why did you show yourself to us?" she asks, leaning her weight onto the pole.

"Your man would have shot into the shadows. He may have hit me," the boy responds. "And I... would like to leave this room, but I have been too afraid, for too long."

"Do you know these passages?"

"I explored, long ago, in little bits. I know some of it. But there are dangers, and I-" His voice cracks, the perfect imitation of a terrified child, and Nathaniel flinches at the spike in pitch, the crumpling of his expression.

Justice had not been so good an imitator.

He thinks to say something, but Jane has nodded, and now says before he can pull her aside, "Then you will go with us. We need to reach the bottom."

"The bottom?" His fingers skitter over the cut to his throat, as if trying to smooth the flesh back together. "The bottom- yes, I can take you there. I can take you there, if you'll protect me?"

Jane nods. "We protect you for as long as you lead us true." She is slipping from her facing-the-Archdemon voice, into her usual tone which sounds more as if she is attempting to face the Archdemon and not entirely managing it. Nathaniel hopes their new companion can't catch it, doesn't know her well enough to catch it. He hopes, too, that perhaps he is only imagining it.

The only answer he has is Cowardice's nod, and clear boy's voice saying, "I swear."

He hopes it will be enough.

* * *

The central chamber is as they've left it and they retrieve their things. She doesn't know why she expects the return of the spikes. Perhaps it's the legacy of so many years as a Warden. Dealing beneath the surface seems to invite all manner of things to go horribly, horribly wrong.

But maybe, she thinks with a sinking heart, the danger is not in spikes, but in the boy who leads them forward. Her light pulses with her agitation, her nervousness. A demon, she tells herself, would have attacked by now. A demon would not seem so scared.

Demons lie, though. She thinks back to Mouse. He was not the first she ever encountered. There were others, whispering in dreams on occasion since she was a young girl. But Mouse was the first one that almost tricked her. He had played on her own fears, her own hopes, her own  _strength_  to try and take her.

And isn't that what Cowardice does now?

For now, though, there is only one way onward: down. She follows him down the staircase. Around them are all the decorations now familiar enough that she doesn't feel the pull to stop and stare. Later, she'll bring a torch down and make rubbings or copy all of the most interesting mementos of a past that isn't hers. This fascination with the old grows daily. Is it because she has no past of her own beyond a tower and a journey? No family that she can find, no childhood memory except for pulling fire from the air?

It isn't the time. Her thoughts meander, and she tries not to think about the lyrium tucked in her pack. It can help with her focus, for a time, but if she runs her tongue along the back of her teeth she can still taste her last dose.  _Too soon_.

They're almost to the bottom when Cowardice stops, then backs up a few steps. He nearly bumps into her, and she dances up, the fall of her light following. "Cowardice-"

"Shh, they'll hear us!"

Her fingers tighten around her staff, then loose and stroke along the wood as she lifts it into a fighting stance. "Who?"

"More of the dead, I'd say," Nathaniel mutters. "I will be out of arrows if this goes on much longer."

There's a dry scraping sound. Bone on stone - she knows it too well by now.

She nearly says,  _Cowardice, get behind us_ before she realizes just how bad an idea that might be. Jane abandoned her foolishness as best she could some time ago. Now she simply flows into a series of movements, small at first and then growing greater, and works hexes into the passage floor far below.

"It will slow them down," she says. "And now we call them."

"Call them?" Cowardice asks, looking back with wide eyes. "Bring them  _here_?"

Her smile is thin. "We will have to face them sooner or later. I prefer it to be on my own terms."

She lights a fire in the stale, stagnant air and sends it rolling down, burning on no kindling but her own thought. She doesn't need to tap a movement for this; it comes as naturally as breathing. The fire illuminates the landing beneath them in stark, violent shadows.

No walking dead.

She separates her hands, and the fire spills in every direction with a crack of heating air.

Bone clatters, echoing as the flames die. Two have been returned to the Maker, then, and that leaves- how many? She can't estimate. But she can send their light hovering into the space below them, raising a hand to brighten it until, behind her, Nathaniel looses an arrow. Another. She can barely see in the glare, but-

An arrow strikes a skull, or the outline of a skull.

The other bodies have all had flesh and dried skin covering them, but the creatures that boil up from the dark are only bone, bone and decaying fabric and ornaments. Some walk on two legs. Others are no longer human, instead complexes of limb bones, sometimes six sets to one center, that skitter too fast for Nathaniel to hit. They climb in the blink of an eye, one or two or three skulls set in with gnashing teeth. Jane shouts and tries to backpedal, but her skirts are long and unwieldy.

Jane falls.

Her shoulder strikes the stairway first, knocking loose her staff from her grip. She curls up to cover her head, closing her eyes as she tumbles. She can't cast like this, not while the world spins around her and goes dark, and there were so  _many_  left.

She hears the sickening crack as Nathaniel's boot heel meets bone. They snap like twigs. Her breath rushes out in another seizing gasp as she hits the landing, sliding instead of falling for one last second. When she staggers up, she barely sees the outline of a skeleton before its ribcage shatters and blows apart.

 _Nathaniel_ -

He shouts, and she turns to the sound of him, her light flaring. Two of the low-slung creatures are trying to pull him down. Cowardice is- she can't see him, but it doesn't matter. She claps her hands together above her head, and lightning strikes their centers. They fall apart with a Veil-whipped howl.

Everything is silent.

The light builds again, slowly. Jane's hands tremble and she fights the urge to sink down and close her eyes. Her pack thuds to the ground with a faint clinking of vials, her only compromise. She has faced worse than this, but it never becomes any easier. She has been thrown by ogres, lacerated by the claws of bereskarn, bloodied and beaten by men. The memory of each of those times does little to dull the pain of the moment.

"Jane?" Nathaniel rasps, easing himself down the stairs, pack left behind. He favors one ankle. "Jane, are you-"

"I'm okay," she says, then laughs, a broken noise that surprises even her. "I'm still okay. But one day I'll have to run out of luck-"

"No," he says, and drops to sit at her feet, tugging the laces loose on his boot. "That you have in abundance."

"Not when I play cards," she murmurs, then looks around.

The landing stretches off in either direction in secondary halls, but the stairs that lead down only number perhaps twenty, and end in a small chamber. She takes the steps gingerly, one at a time, until she finds her staff. It feels heavy in her hands. Measuring the steps back to him, she watches as Nathaniel scans the other passages. He sees nothing and she sits with her back against his, head aching and ears ringing. As she rubs at her thigh where her skin is already beginning to swell, she sends a spell beneath her skin to patch the damage.

"... Where's that demon of yours?" Nathaniel asks after a moment.

Jane doesn't bother correcting him to  _spirit_. "I don't know. I didn't see him go."

Nathaniel makes a sound like a growl, and she looks over her shoulder. He's gotten his boot free. Blood drips lazily to the floor beneath his ankle.

"Let me look at that," she says, turning and resting more of her weight on him. She lifts a hand.

"You don't-" he starts to say. She casts anyway and he falls silent, giving up. The break in the skin heals and for a moment, she can see his eyelids flutter.

Maker, what she wouldn't give for a nap right now. The soft bed at the garrison would be even better. She stifles a groan and turns back around, feeling the warmth of him against her shoulders.

"So," Nathaniel said after another quiet moment, "we have a demon on the loose, grotesques I have never in all my experience even  _heard_  of, and who knows how many more miles to go before we rest.  _Commander_ ," he says, and she can imagine the way he would look up at her from beneath a lowered and questioning brow, "may we go for reinforcements yet?"

It's tempting. It's as tempting as the lyrium just a few feet away. A judicious retreat, an acknowledgment that no, she still can't do everything on her own without fault-

Footsteps on the stairs bring her head jerking up. It's Cowardice; he nearly trips in his hurry to get to them, his face pale as can be. But he smiles.

 _Maker save us_ , she thinks and leans heavily on Nathaniel. Nathaniel does the same - no risk of overbalancing.

"Oh, you're alive- I'm so glad.  _So_  glad. I didn't know... I didn't think there would be that many," the Fade-creature says, coming to crouch by them. "There can't be many more, though. ... I don't think."

She stares at him, gaze level and weary. Does she tell this creature that, no, on second thought they'll be running away now and he can't come along? Or does she press on?

 _There can't be many more_. The Dead Trenches taught her how wrong that simple sentence can be.

Still...

Jane sighs. "We move ever forwards," she concedes, and reaches for her pack.

Nathaniel waits until she has swallowed another slick and sweet mouthful of lyrium, quieting her moan and pushing through the delicious light-headed euphoria of it, then pushes himself up gingerly. His ankle holds. He says nothing, but his gaze is unmistakably warning and questioning.  _Careful, Commander. Careful, Jane._

How much does he judge her for this? How much fault does he find in her again?

They will move on, and she will take no more tumbles.

First, though, she climbs the steps far enough that she can see the mass of bone shards that was once a skittering creature. Something glints among the splinters. She crouches and carefully picks it free: an unrefined chunk of ruby, with no polish or facets. Its only decoration is a rune inscribed on it.

It hums in her hand. After a moment, she clears her throat and looks back. Cowardice is standing close to Nathaniel, closer than the archer would likely prefer. "It's old magic," she says, simply, and then pockets the stone.

"Of course it's old," Nathaniel says as she retrieves the others. "No way for new magic to get in here."

"I mean that I don't recognize it," she says, descending the stairs once more. "And if it's persisted this long-"

"No doubt with a Fade perversion along for the ride," he mutters with a glance at Cowardice.

"- then it was worked by somebody very powerful."

"Lovely," Nathaniel says, and this time it is him who leads. Cowardice follows at his hip.

They take the passage that stretches right. It twists and curls, but there are no doors off of it until the very end, an arch leading into one of the carefully decorated rooms. She watches as Nathaniel waves Cowardice back, then advances at a crouch. She holds her breath.

"Back," he says. Her heart spasms, fear jolting through her, until she processes that there is no note of urgency in his voice. He waits until she and Cowardice are almost around a bend. She watches, transfixed, as he studies the floor. He eventually places himself several feet away from the entrance, tight to one wall, and draws his bow.

A single arrow strikes the floor just before the archway. There's a groan and creak, then a near-deafening crack as the first metal spikes spring from the ceiling and floor. They start beyond the arch, but in only a few seconds the line has rolled closer, wave after wave of potential death. Nathaniel is between two of them. He sits and waits.

Jane backs up a few feet, but the spikes never reach her. She lets out a shaking breath. Cowardice, behind her, clings to her skirts until she shakes him loose.

"Nathaniel?"

"We're clear," he says, and she joins him. If he's unnerved, he doesn't show it now. Instead he gestures her forward through the arch with a small bow. She returns it with a small, tired smile and an incline of her head.

The room is as lovely as the others, carved and painted and inlaid. There are no bones littering the floor, only old scraps of fabric that would disintegrate at a touch. She holds her breath as she approaches the walls. This room doesn't mimic any beautiful landscape - instead it is covered in figures surrounded by intricate borders. Text.

One figure is missing the stones that would have made up her eyes, only hollow, rough pits where they used to be. Some of the paint is chipped. She sets her staff aside, leaning it up against the wall so that she can have both hands free to hover over the stone. "Aiglante," she reads, sounding out the syllables and then repeating them all together. "Aiglante, his wife, a mage of the first order."

"What does that mean? Was she a magister?"

"Not a magister," Jane says, shaking her head as she trails her fingers over the carvings. The exhaustion is all a distant memory. "Similar, but not Tevinter. She would have had to bow before any archon, any magister of the empire. But she built herself a little empire here..."

"We should keep moving."

"No, hold on." She purses her lips, tapping her tongue against her palate in thought. "No. This figure here, the one who looks like you- this is his tomb, but it's not just his." She traces one of the words. "It was built for two. He died first, it says - his villa was set alight and he died in the fires."

"Lovely."

"But I don't think she was ever buried here. See, look at this-" She taps a finger against an offset square of writing, elaborately bordered but blank in places. "It wasn't finished. And her eyes..."

Nathaniel leans forward to look at it, then shakes his head and pulls back. No, he's not interested - but she thinks it's fascinating, and a few minutes won't harm the exploration. She wants to have something to tell the other Wardens besides  _undead_ , especially, if it turns out that they will have to collapse the tomb.

Still, she makes herself pull away, and is just taking up her staff again when Nathaniel says, "Cowardice, what do you know about who's buried her?"

Oh.

She hadn't thought of that.

Cowardice comes to her hip and rises onto his toes, but he's not looking at the carving. He's looking at her. "Well..." he starts, then frowns, a boy's pout.

"You were at the funeral," Jane prods, trying to keep her eagerness muted. Gentle, gentle...

"I wanted to be, yes." He looks down and rocks back onto his heels. "Well,  _he_  was buried here. The husband. Nico... Nicodème. That was it. He was a great soldier in his own right."

"But Aiglante had more power," Jane muses aloud, tapping the wall with her index finger, casting odd purple shadows across the relief from the traces of her light spell.

"I don't know," the spirit-boy says. "I remember that when the doors were sealed..."

Nathaniel sighs, running a hand back through his hair. "Out with it."

Cowardice's voice falls to nearly a whisper. "Somebody was sealed in. The sacrifices were made, I took a body, and then the doors were closed and somebody was screaming... but I never saw their face."

"Did you ever see their body?" Nathaniel asks, sharply, and Jane knows there's no interest in the  _why_ , only the possibility of danger. She forces herself to turn away from the wall.

"I don't know," Cowardice says, looking down. "I don't know."

Jane shakes her head and steps between the two. "Well, let's move on."

Nathaniel quirks a brow. "We could easily make camp here for a few hours. Rest. We don't know what's beyond."

She lets her eyes track to one side, just enough to indicate Cowardice. Sleeping while this creature is about- no. And it's only been a few hours, albeit harrowing ones.

She's been through worse.

"No," she says. "If it's like the others, it can't be much deeper."

"Just like there can't be many more undead," he grumbles, but he turns and leads the way back to the other hallway branch.

This one is longer. It turns as the others do, but there's a gentle slope downwards. She estimates that they drop a good twenty feet as they move, the air growing chill as they sink deep below the surface. Cowardice is quiet, as is the stone.

When it levels out, it's in a section where the walls are less decorated. Jane scans the hallway. Was this part unfinished, too? Or is this just a variation? She takes a step back to gain a fuller view of the far wall, and for a moment twitches her light brighter.

Aside from scroll work and geometric patterns, the wall opposite her is bare. She files it away and continues down the hall.

Something beneath her foot shifts.

She never hears the sound. She can't feel the air, either; it's all going the wrong way. All she can do is watch as the gleaming, sharpened arc of metal swings down from the ceiling on a straight-shot path to her.

 _No_.

There's something very peculiar about the way time passes, stretching out slow and languid. She's felt this way before. A charging ogre; a first kiss; diving forward to strike down the Archdemon.

Why can't she move now?

Maybe it's too fast. Maybe she's too tired. Maybe a part of her is still the old death seeker. Maybe it's the lyrium or the dark, but whatever it is- she's going to die. She's going to die at last. She-

Nathaniel collides with her with a shout, shoving her out of the path of the blade. Her back and head strike the wall hard, and she loses all her breath from how he presses close. He's knocked the wind from her, and resurrected her throbbing headache.

But he's alive.

Behind him, the pendulum begins its slow path to a halt. There are two more, across the hallway, swinging almost lazily. Like an ornament caught on the breeze.

And before  _her_  is Nathaniel, gaze boring straight through her.

* * *

Her exhale is warm against his lips and as the immediate danger passes, he becomes all too aware of how close he has her against the wall, how much of his weight pins her there.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, hands flexing against the wall on either side of her but not pushing away. Her eyes are wide and her pupils blown dark - from fear, he tells himself, from shock, from the utterly terrifying knowledge that she had almost been cut in two by an ages-old bladed trap.

Not, he insists, from the same startled  _want_  that he feels, the same confusing impulse that made him kiss her in her office. He blames his desire on proximity and familiarity alone. But he is proud of her and impressed by her and he watches where she goes with more attention than he ever felt in Amaranthine, and Maker help him, but the thought of her injured in his arms had made his heart speed up beyond care for his commander.

"It's okay," Jane murmurs, swallowing, and she reaches up a hand to touch his jaw. He shudders, control wearing thin. It would be so easy to lean in, kiss her down here in the dark; her bobbing light sphere is fading with her distraction, and she licks her lips. It's an invitation. She can't feel this way, but it's an invitation, and it's  _her_  that leans towards him, tilting her chin up. He closes his eyes, hands curling against the stone, and-

There's a tug at his leathers. "What are you doing?" Cowardice asks in a whining, wheedling tone. The moment is broken and he hisses a curse, pulling back and looking down at the spirit.

"None of your business," he growls.

Cowardice blinks up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Were you going to kiss her?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but Jane speaks first. "We should keep moving," she says, and he reconciles  _need_  with _duty_  as he has grown so used to, and adds a healthy dose of  _folly_  to make sure his hands remain away from her. He takes another step back and lets her pass, and reaches down to bat the spirit away from where he still clutches.

"The commander is right," he adds, and watches as he uncurls his fingers and steps away, looking up and down the hall as Jane's light comes back to full brightness. "Are there any more of  _these_ waiting for us?" Nathaniel asks as he steps around the blade, only swaying gently now that its momentum has been lost. It is as decorated as the rest of these halls, but its edges remain sharp. He keeps his distance.

"I don't think so. I don't know," Cowardice says. He wraps his thin arms around himself and moves ahead of Jane, peering towards the next intersection. "I set one off, once, further down. It should still be safe there. I can show you?"

He doesn't want to trust this creature, not after their close call, not after it was  _him_  who tripped the trigger, who nearly got Jane killed. Jane looks to him, and he sees in the press of her lips, the way her blush has already faded (he can't think about that, can't think about how close she was, how eager) that she doesn't trust their friend so much any more. Whatever he has earned is gone, and Nathaniel feels more settled.

"You go in front," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Cowardice only nods. He doesn't protest. His shoulders tremble, but Nathaniel is not so sure it is from  _cowardice_. This spirit is too skilled an actor, and matches up little with what he learned from Justice.

He could very well be acting now.

Nathaniel watches as the boy - spirit - moves in front of Jane, glances back once, then leads the way. Nathaniel follows at Jane's side, and Jane glances to him with at first a furrowed brow, and then a crooked smile. It's forced.

But he has learned, too, that when she forces smiles it is not necessarily because she doesn't feel them.

They follow their guide around the next corner, down a short hall, and up a half-flight of steps. The floor pitches down from there, and their light illuminates no shambling corpses, no demon-animated skeletons to block their path. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, because before them, too, is the beginnings of a staircase that stretches down, down, and down.

They've found it. Once they've mapped the bottom, it's just a return trip up and to the door, and then they'll be rid of this place. His mind is still, no buzz of darkspawn, and the thought that an end is in sight makes him roll his shoulders, flex his fingers.

Jane relaxes, too, letting her staff take her weight.

"Well," she says, and then drops her pack from her shoulder. "I'm hesitant to make camp at all, but perhaps a rest-"

Her fingers shake, and Nathaniel nods. Too many close encounters have left his own nerves frayed. For Jane, two near-misses must wear her thin, and he almost goes to her side to help her sit. She makes it on her own while he stands hesitant, unsure of getting too close, unsure of letting himself stop.

He'll stand guard, instead.

Cowardice has gone quiet, no triumphant crowing or beaming presentation of what he has done for him, and that, too, puts Nathaniel at ease. He keeps his gaze trained on the spirit all the same. He looks around as if he is just a wondering boy, wide-eyed and with a faint smile.

And then he stops.

"What's that?" Cowardice asks, coming up to Jane's side and going so far as to tug at her sleeve. He points to a spot on the wall, just before the seemingly endless spiral stairs begin their descent. The stone there is unpainted, a sharp contrast from the colors that still surround them on all sides. Sections of the carving look unfinished, and Nathaniel can see Jane's brows lift, her lips loosen in the way that says all too clearly,  _oh, and what is that_?

But he isn't about to let her trigger another swinging blade, or allow Cowardice to guide her to it. The fear is too recent and the thought unwise, and so he steps forward. "I'll take a look. Stay there, J- Commander."

"Are you sure?" Cowardice says, trotting forward, and Nathaniel's eyes narrow. Cowardice hesitates. "I could- if you-"

"It might be dangerous," he says, flat and unamused, and watches as the spirit slinks back. His fingers still itch to shoot when he looks at the creature, though each time he falters more at the image of it. Cowardice's eyes are too wide, too liquid, the slash on his throat too red - and Nathaniel isn't sure he can kill a child, even if the child is not exactly as a child should be. He turns to still the image and banish the tension for just a little while longer and moves with long, fast strides to the wall.

It looks unremarkable, and would have been, if not for what lies on either side of it, above it, below it. He frowns, reaching out and passing two fingers lightly over the surface. It is the same stone, of that he is sure. He keeps attentive for any buttons, any little pearls to press like in the grand room on the first floor, but sees none. There are no panels beneath his foot to step on, and a glance to the ceiling high above shows no grooves for a blade to swing from.

Perhaps it's safe after all.

Behind him, Jane's light bobs and shifts, and in the resettling of shadows he makes out the faintest of cracks, straight, along one edge almost where it meets the colored and finely carved wall. His frown deepens, and he leans closer to look, hand settling against the wall.

There's not even a screech as the floor moves beneath him, fast enough that if he were a templar he's sure he would feel the telltale throb of magic, and he barely manages a shout before darkness swallows him up. The wall is a wall once more, and not a spinning portal, and a few harsh jabs at the stone does nothing.

He swallows and tries to calm his breathing. He calls out.

There is no response.

He waits for what must come next, the shudder of a spell crashing against the wall as Jane tries to find him, her face when she finds the secret of the trap, relieved and yet still caught up in the panic, and Maker damn it all, when this is all fixed, he is going to kiss her properly, nevermind who's watching or what he fears might come of it all.

But for now, there is only darkness.

He takes a step back, not far, not far enough that his hand cannot touch the stone behind him. He turns to look out at whatever stretches before him. He has no sense of depth or size, if he is in a tunnel that is wide and tall enough for him to stand or in a great chamber. The floor doesn't slope, but that doesn't mean it won't, and he grits his teeth.

Relinquishing his hold on the wall is the last thing he wants to do, not with the unknown before him and the thudding of his heart in his ears, the anger and shame at not having run, not having fallen back. But he has a torch in the pack on his back, he remembers, and so he retreats until his foot is against the wall and unslings it from his shoulder. The rattle of arrows in his quiver as it shifts is too-loud. He grits his teeth and crouches, fumbling along the side of the bag until he feels the wood and oil-soaked cloth.

That leaves only flint and his knife, and the certainty necessary to use his only torch.

He has the flint pouch in his hand when he realizes he can see just the faintest hint of its outline. No sound comes from behind the door. The light reflects off unpolished stone in faint bursts, and he looks slowly from the door to the darkness behind him.

It is not so dark, and standing at the foot of a small flight of stairs is a woman.

She stares up at him in the not-dark, skin drawn tight over bone. She wears a headdress. She wears faded robes that seem ready to fall apart at the slightest breeze. And slowly, she smiles.

"Husband," she says.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nathaniel learns that Jane is a terrifying woman.

"Nathaniel!"

Jane is against the wall, fingers scrabbling at seemingly endless carvings. A nail breaks, but she barely marks it, instead stretching up against the stone. This side is as decorated as the other, and painted too.  _This_  is what was meant to face out into the hall.

But it has to open. It opened once, it will do it again.

"Miss-" Cowardice says, voice trembling as always, and Jane barely spares it a glance.

" _Not. Now_ ," she hisses.

"But-"

"Silence!"

She is not a woman of presence, of grand commands (even if some would like to believe so), but her voice is harsh and ragged and it lends a certain angry desperation. Her palms skim over stone, then press hard. He had leaned against it, hadn't he?

The stone doesn't move. Jane bites hard at her lip, then backs up. Right. So if she can't find the switch, the button, then she can bring all her own talents to bear.

" _Miss-_ "

Her hands are up and wreathed in glowing power before he can continue, pulses of energy falling from her like water. They ripple out until she directs them forward, and they coalesce into a brilliant stream, slamming into the stone and splashing back to be reincorporated in the assault. Fire has no purpose here, unless she chose to melt the stone itself, and to make the earth tremble would bring all the tomb down upon their heads. Ice might crack, but it's too far a chance.

So she forces her control against the stone ungirdled by any purpose except  _push_.

The hall is filled with roaring noise, and anything that Cowardice might have said is drowned out. So to is the clink of glass as she pulls a vial of lyrium from her pack, the shift of her robe as she rises once more. The cool, liquid ecstasy flows down her throat until it meets the terror and panic within, redoubles, and emerges in a still more brilliant push.

The wall does not move.

Jane lets her hands fall and only barely keeps from dropping towards the floor herself.

Her ears ring with the sudden silence, buzzing and throbbing, and her head swims from the rush of power and lyrium. Her head falls forward and she closes her eyes, focusing on her breathing. Simple breaths, one two three and out-

There are footsteps behind her. "Miss," Cowardice says, and this time she doesn't fight his approach. "Miss, if that's a passage, maybe it goes deeper? Maybe if we continue down..."

 _I can't lose him_. Alistair had gone, Anders had gone, Justice had gone, so  _many_  had gone into a darkness she couldn't follow into. Nathaniel will not be the same. Her hands lift to drift over the stone once more before she turns to the small child's body.

"You're right," she says, voice now as soft and trembling as her thoughts. "We continue on."

 _Please let this be the right choice_.

The woman approaches slowly. If he were a braver man, he would have more than enough time to nock an arrow, to draw, to shoot. He has more than enough time to aim. Instead, he stands still, swallowing down his fluttering heart and keeping his gaze trained on her.

"Husband," she says again, with that same small smile. She does not beckon, or ask what has been keeping him. She is no addled ghost.

"Stay back," he says.

She laughs and climbs the first step. The second. He can see the plaits that her thin, brittle hair is pulled into, looping curls secured with jeweled pins. There is no paint left upon her face, but sometimes, when the shadows fall just right, she seems a woman and not a corpse. Her eyes remain focused on him.

"Put the torch down," she says, and he catches a glimpse of movement by her hand. Something small bounces to the floor. He tries to track the muffled sound, but it fades too quickly. His vision blurs. His arm begins to drop as he feels something tugging at his thoughts.

The torch drops and gutters out, and he tries to reach for his knife. His fingers twitch, but otherwise don't obey.

"Sleep," the woman whispers into his ear, and he begins to sway on his feet.

 _Blood mage_.

* * *

"What's down there?" Jane demands as they move down endless staircases.

"I don't know."

"There will be a central burial chamber. Nicodème will be down there. And whoever was buried here alive. I need to know the layout, in case they, too, walk."

Images dance in her minds' eye. She is no commander, but she has picked up more than a few things about strategy, about assault. She will not rush in unprepared, not with Nathaniel's life hanging in the balance. She will bring every inch of her power to bear.

"I don't know!" Cowardice protests, and she stops, rounding on him.

"You will tell me now, or I will destroy you."

He stares up at her.

"If you don't know," she continues, voice shaking with barely controlled fear and anger, "I have no use for you. You're a dead weight, Cowardice.  _Tell me_."

Cowardice's hand flutters to his slashed throat and he toes the ground, that same boyish gesture that now only makes her want to set him alight. "I... you're right, there is a central chamber. One side room, not very large. No traps. But I don't know more than that. I  _promise_."

"And did you know about that door?"

"No!"

She stares him down until he flinches and turns away, arms curling around himself.

"Then if that is all you can give me," she says, "I will raise an army myself."

* * *

Nathaniel wakes on a long stone slab swathed with decaying fabrics, his wrists and ankles bound by chains. His head aches and spins, and he can make out little in the dark. He tests the bonds; they hold strong. Grimacing, he whispers a swear.

If he can reach his belt, he can get one of his smaller lockpicks, loose these by feel alone-

"You're awake."

It's the same woman with the same thin, whispering voice. He flinches as a bony hand traces over his forehead, along his jaw, down his throat.

"I never expected him to bring me a new body for Nicodème," the woman -  _Aiglante_  - continued, voice a rattling purr. "He deserves an even greater reward. Ah, but you look just like him..."

Nathaniel swallows. "Let me go."

"No, darling." Her fingers tweak the skin over his collarbone, then slip lower to begin undoing the fasteners of his shirt. "Have you ever loved? You would understand if you had. I've been down here alone for  _ages_  with only his bones to keep me company." Her fingers claw into his ribs. "It has been a very, very long winter for me, and I will have my summer still."

"They left you down here to die," he hisses.

"So they did." She circles around the table, skirts slithering over the floor. "And were they still alive, they would pay dearly. But they're not;  _I_ am."

"By making deals with demons."  _Cowardice_. Maker take him, he'd been right. It has to be the little whimpering child. Nathaniel grits his teeth and tugs hard at his bonds.

Aiglante laughs, a rasping, hollow sound. "By leashing a demon."

"That doesn't work, you know," he snaps with another yank. Aiglante doesn't pause, hands beginning to drift down the plane of his stomach. His gut roils and tenses in disgust. "It will turn on you. Destroy you."

"And what else do I have to look forward to?" Her hands begin to drift up again, but only with the clatter of his lockpicks on the floor. "Tell me- did you come with a mageling?" He can smell the dust of her skin as she leans close to his face. "Did you bring me a glorious new body of my own?"

He says nothing.

"Is she very beautiful?" Aiglante murmurs, letting her lips drift over his. He closes his eyes and wills away the sensation.

"He won't let her leave, you know. He will lead her down here. Will she come to rescue you?"

"What makes you think," he grinds out, "that the demon won't just possess her and leave you here?" The thought makes his heart freeze; Jane's flesh, warped and deformed, her power flooding out uncontrollably, her body - what remained of it - put down by a templar sword.  _No_. She won't allow it to happen. But Aiglante hardly needs to know.

"Because we have a deal. With a little power, I know how to open the tomb again. If the demon wants out, he cooperates. Otherwise, we both rot."

"That demon could leave whenever he wants to."

"No," she says, "he can't. Don't you think I would have made sure nothing could possess my dear Nicodème? He needs me. And so I have him leashed." Pride fills her voice. "A beautiful body of my own, power once more, and you, my husband reborn. Ah- this is more perfect than I could have imagined. Don't you understand? You are a part of something magnificent."

"The templars will hunt you down," he breathes.

"The templars will bow before me," she returns, and seals her lips over his.

His stomach revolts; he can taste bile in the back of his throat and rot at the tip of his tongue. He thrashes, trying to strike her with his forehead, his jaw, but she is quick for an animated, dried-out corpse. Her power slams him down flat to the table, and he feels the tugging tickle of blood magic in his limbs again, relaxing him and forcing him to respond. Aiglante plants one long-fingered hand on his bare chest, the other in his hair to keep his head tilted back.

"It has been so long," she murmurs against his slackened lips, dragging a nail down his chest. "And now all that I need is your girl in chains. It won't be long. Ah..."

She kisses at his throat and his pulse jumps. His head spins between horror and pleasure. Where has the blood come from? The living haven't trod in these halls for ages. He remembers the distant, muffled bounce of something on the steps.

 _A vial_?

He lifts his hand as if to stroke her hip and she smiles against his skin. Fumbling, he runs his hand over her side, over fabric that disintegrates beneath his tough. There, on a sash- a small bottle, uncorked, something slick along the open neck-

What sounds like grand doors at the end of a great hall crash inwards, once, twice, against whatever binds them closed. Aiglante jerks up and he closes his fingers around the vial, tipping it out over the floor. She screams as the blood soaks into her dress, whirling away, and in another instant torches and braziers throughout the room blaze to life. Nathaniel gasps as she pulls power from the dripping blood and begins to choke the air from his lungs.

And then the doors - great doors, grand doors, doors carved of stone and decorated with so many gems he can barely make out their outlines - swing open with a grinding screech.

The very dead pour forth, armed with broken detritus and ancient weapons. They glow with a sickly blue aura and they howl as they surge forward, a raging torrent. He can make out the skittering forms of monstrosities, giants built of ten individuals, a groaning panoply of every horror he could imagine.

And at their rear is Jane, hands outstretched and eyes blazing.

He stares down the length of his body as her army rushes forward into battle, Aiglante retreating fast before them. Her own skeletal hands flash in the flickering, jumping light, and statues groan to life, bones assemble at her feet. The flames spiral up towards the ceiling, then cascade back down in a searing rain. Skeletons fall to pieces. Horrors hiss and spit and charge.

Jane remains untouched, the fire giving her a wide, loving berth.

She brings it up in circles around her and sends it flaring back out toward the ancient mage. He feels the crash of it overhead as it's met with another wave of power, feels the sparks rain down on him. He grits his teeth against the pinpoint burns and rotates his hands in his shackles, searching for a way out.

She needs his help. Jane needs his help. And Cowardice-

Cowardice is in the room. He slinks along one of the outer walls, half in shadows, and as Nathaniel watches he begins to lengthen, his boyish body shifting and deforming. There are claws and blades and winding smoke.  _Demon_ , he thinks, then struggles for his voice. Has Aiglante stolen it? Has-

" _Jane!_ " he bellows, arching up against his bonds. "He's a demon! He's-"

Heat rushes over him, followed by a heavy blanket of smoke, and he coughs, trying to hack his lungs free. It smothers him, a creature of its own, and he tries to gasp for breath. None comes. His head spins, and dimly he can make out the sounds of screaming, crying, swearing. Glass breaks. Bone snaps. Something hits rock, a dull thud, and all he can think of is Jane's eyes glazing over, the demon beginning to warp her, and then his own consciousness departing-

The smoke thins, lifting from him just long enough that he can suck in fresh air. His head pounds, but he twists to find her.  _Jane_ is a litany in his head, repeating with uneven cadence, until he finds her. Her eyes are wild, her hands clawed, and he can see the glowing sheen of lyrium on her lips.

Aiglante is beneath her, teeth bared in her unholy skull.

And where is Cowardice? His eyes search frantically as the smoke begins to descend once more and Aiglante rolls free of Jane's hold.  _There_. Stalking forward fast, low to the ground, skeletons disintegrating as its shaded feet roil.

"Behind you!" he yells, voice hoarse and cracking. His eyes and lungs burn, and he thrashes on the table again. The smoke is burning him alive.  _Andraste preserve me_. "Jane!  _Jane!_ "

Through the haze he sees Jane whirl, headscarf coming free in a blaze of color. Her staff comes up just in time to block Cowardice-  _the demon's_  downward strike. Aiglante takes the opportunity to rise to her full height again. "Now!" she yells in her hollow voice. "Now, do it now! Give me her form!"

The demon ducks around Jane, and he stares through the pain, transfixed. He waits for the blade to come piercing through Jane's stomach, for her eyes to widen in realization of the end. He waits for her eyes to narrow with a new mind behind them.  _She's gone, she's gone_ , he thinks, body tensing and beginning to shake.  _I need to be with her. I need_ -

Aiglante screams, and he looks to her just in time to see the demon slowly begin to pull her ribcage apart.

"I have a new plan," it hisses, and its mouth unhinges wide.

"Hunger," Jane growls, then launches herself forward. He can see the tremble in her step, though, the exhaustion creeping in. Her army has fallen, dropped to bone shards and disordered piles, and she's worked too much magic to keep everything going, to keep flames off of her and him.

The hunger demon lifts its head, then dances back as it takes on Nathaniel's form. It bows with a twisting grin, then winks. "Just let it go, love," he says, in a reasonable imitation of Nathaniel's voice, and Nathaniel wants to shout again. But his head aches, his throat burns, and he lays against the stone, helpless, as the smoke finally settles and leaves him exhausted.

"Don't think that a costume will stop me," Jane says, but he can see her falter.

"It's not just a costume," Hunger murmurs, moving a few steps closer. The crackle of power in the air dies down to a faint murmur. "It's a bargain. An arrangement."

"What, like your bargain with her?"

Hunger shakes its head. "Oh, no. A better one. I want out of this place. You'll let me. And then you'll stand by while I eat my fill - I've been so  _hungry_  down here. Only the dead and a mage I thought I needed to get me out.

"But I've saved your life," he purrs. "Don't you think you owe me this?"

"Stand by- do you mean stand by while you take my body?"

Hunger smirks and leans in, almost close enough to kiss her. "Depends on how you mean that, love."

Jane's lip twitches, curls, and then she slams her hand forward, ice crackling from her palm into a spike.

Hunger howls, losing its form and swinging a clawed hand at her. Jane ducks and rolls away, then skitters back away from his stone slab, hurling blasts at Hunger's head as she moves. But Hunger doesn't follow, instead turning and falling into a loping run.

Towards him.

Nathaniel closes his eyes and prays.

He hears Jane's shout, and then the rattle of arrows sliding free of a quiver. His quiver? He can hear the fletching cut through the air, faster than he could ever shoot, and then the punch of the steel head through a body. Somebody stumbles, falls towards the ground. He can't bring himself to look, can't see Jane pinned to the floor and his death approaching.

And then something cold and sickly drifts down over his throat and chest, and his eyes snap open. Hunger dissolves above him, and he's left only with Jane, panting and clutching a small knife where the demon's heart would have been.

* * *

The knife clatters to the floor and she tries with shaking fingers to unlock Nathaniel's shackles. Her hands slip and she swears. "Just a moment," she mumbles, "just a moment. I have this. I- I-"

But her fingers aren't fine enough to slip into locks, and she doesn't have picks or the skill to use them. She's exhausted, barely able to stand, let alone cast, and she sags against the table.

"Just a moment," she breathes.

Beneath her, Nathaniel is silent.

His breathing is ragged and uneven, wheezing through his lips, and he reeks of smoke. The memories come back - flames descending on him, smoke curling around and into him. She was almost too slow. No, she has to get him free and to a healer, somebody more skilled than she.

"Go get help," Nathaniel rasps at last.

"No," she says, quickly. "No. No, I'm not leaving you alone. I'm going to get you out of here. Just... just a moment..."

She swallows thickly, then pushes what little of herself she has left into snapping the lock open. It clicks and the metal falls from Nathaniel's wrist. She lets out a sigh of relief and bow her head.

"Give me my picks, Jane."

She glances up to see him watching her steadily, despite how his eyes are red and watering. He looks pointedly to one side of the table, and she follows his gaze.  _There_. The little leather roll he always carries. She nods and moves to that side, dropping to one knee to lift it and hand it up.

"I'm sorry," she says as he takes his tools, their shaking fingers touching. Nathaniel pauses, gaze focused on her, and gently runs one finger along hers.

"I came as fast as I could," she continues, ducking and resting her forehead against the cool stone. Her heart beats double-time again. "Maker, I should have let you shoot the little bastard. I should have let you rip him to shreds. You were right. What if he led you to that door? What if..."

"Be quiet," Nathaniel says, soft and reassuring, and she falls silent.

The locks click open, one after another, and soon Nathaniel pushes himself up and fumbles with the fasteners of his shirt. "Let's get out of this wretched place," he says as he tests his legs.

"I can't open the doors," she says, coming to lean on him and let him do the same in turn. "Not right now. Not like this."

"Then how long have we been down here?"

"I don't know." She sighs as they begin to limp towards her staff. "I don't know. We can make camp, though. By the door. I went back and left my pack there, when I was raising my army."

He snorts. "Did you know," he says as she bends to scoop up the scarred and pitted wood, "that you are a singularly terrifying woman?"

"You weren't there at Ostagar," she returns with a small shake of her head, the two of them stumbling off again in the direction of the doors. "My first time away from the Tower, and all of a sudden I'm making people explode and not knowing how I'm doing it. Sucking the residual energy out of the dead..."

"Didn't know you could do that."

"I don't talk about it much. Fire makes you fewer enemies." She smiles thinly, then helps him up the first step. "Now stop talking," she says as they take the second one. "Your throat must hurt so much- and there are a lot of stairs."

* * *

They make their bed at the entrance to the tomb. Jane insists on letting Nathaniel take both bedrolls, in order to be more comfortable, and she sits up the whole of the night taking watch. He knows the tomb is empty; she's told him more than once. But none of his pleas or tugs at her robes make her join him, and eventually, exhausted true sleep does pull him down.

When he wakes, Jane is sitting a few feet away, staring off into what is now almost total darkness. She's built a tiny fire. There is no light sphere bobbing before her, and when he sits up and she glances back, she looks wholly normal. No magic, no walking dead, no darkspawn taint. Her hair is curling and wild, her eyes tired, and her smile- relieved.

"I was a little afraid," she murmured, "that you wouldn't wake up. What did she do to you, down there?"

He reaches for a waterskin and drinks deeply. It burns going down, his throat still raw. If it weren't for how bone-weary he is, he would have never been able to sleep.

"Very little," he says at last. "She... spoke a lot."

"And undressed you."

"Mm." He rolls his shoulders, then scoots off the bedrolls. "You should sleep."

She shakes her head. "The lyrium won't let me."

He frowns. "I didn't know it kept mages awake."

"It doesn't." She sighs and her smile grows thin, then fades to a frown with her eyes downcast. "If I let my guard down... if I let myself relax, I'll give in. I want more."

"Then let yourself have it. You'll be able to open the doors-"

" _No_." The strength in that little word stills him, and he watches quietly as she rises to her feet and begins to pace, one hand tangling in her hair. "No. It's not that simple. Please, just- I'll keep watch. Trust me."

"Is that an order?" he asks, rising to his own feet.

She pauses. "... No. It's a request."

"You're a horrible commander," he says as he approaches with a faint smile.

"Good thing I don't want to command at all, then," she says, gaze still focused on the floor. "I-"

He touches her shoulder, quieting her, then carefully pulls her into his arm, settling his cheek against hers. "Thank you," he says, voice low and rasping from emotion more than injury. "Thank you, for coming for me."

"I couldn't lose you," she mumbles, dropping her head to his shoulder. "Not like all the others."

Nathaniel finds himself stroking a line down between her shoulder blades, parting her hair. "And you didn't."

"I should have been faster-"

He pulls back, taking her by the shoulders. "Look at me," he says.

She looks up.

"Four years ago, what did I tell you?"

Jane winces, and he fights the urge to smooth the little furrow in her brow. She's a grown woman, after all, and a stronger one than he thinks she knows.

"No sulking."

"And not to get caught up in past mistakes," he adds, firmly.

Her lips twitch towards a smile. "We move ever forwards."

He squeezes her shoulders with a quick, pleased smile. "Exactly. So, thank you."

She lifts her chin. "Glad to help."

* * *

Nathaniel spends a week in the infirmary, not because of his injuries but because of her insistence. She cannot apologize to him in words, but she can make right what she was not fast enough to stop. She buries herself in work, in organizing the clean up of the tomb and the beginning of the documentation, and at night rests with Shibboleth at her feet, often counting stars on the compound roof.

She avoids him. It's not because she doesn't want to see him, Maker knows. As the fear and exhaustion both fade, she remembers far more clearly his body close to hers, cradling her, leaning on her. When she's in her office, she remembers peach wine kisses. No, she avoids him because he will leave soon, and even if he were to stay, he's not the sort- they're not the type- it won't happen.

It is the same romance as her and Alistair, her and Anders. Danger and excitement and stolen kisses.

And look at how both of those had ended up.

"I thought I'd gotten used to the idea of ending up an old maid," she sighs, leaning back against Shibboleth's bulk. The mabari shifts, letting out a quiet  _woof_  as she disturbs his nap. "Books and darkspawn and magic, that's me. And you, of course."

Shibboleth kicks at the tiled floor of the balcony they sit on, looking out at the slow sunset over the necropolis.

Somebody clears their voice behind her, and she turns, expecting to see Phineas. Instead, Nathaniel stands there in Grey Warden undress, loose dark trousers and a vibrant blue shirt open at the throat. Nevarran style fits him quite well.

"Hello, Jane."

"I- they released you? I thought they would keep you another day at least." His voice is still rough, and likely always will be, but they saved his lungs. He can run and fight as before. It's only a small cosmetic change, and one that makes her shiver and wince at the same time.  _I did that_.

But Nathaniel had been clear on the subject - she has to move forward.

"I overheard the healers talking, wondering why they still had to keep me in a bed when I was better two days ago," he says, wryly. "It wasn't hard to convince them."

"Oh," she says, flushing a little.

"Jane."

"I'm sorry. I'll owe you a drink in apology?"

Nathaniel approaches, settling down cross-legged beside her. "I have another request," he says, shifting. "If you'll entertain it." His gaze flicks away from her, and she suddenly realizes that he isn't annoyed - he's  _nervous_.

"Go ahead," she says, watching him curiously.

Nathaniel clears his throat. "If you'll let me, I'd like to court you. Properly."

 _Oh_. The breath goes out of her, and she reflexively curls one hand into her skirt to still its trembling. "Court?"

He lifts his chin and straightens his shoulders, not quite looking in her direction. "I am an arl's son."

Her lips curl and she leans into his line of sight, quirking a brow. "And would an arl's son court a mage?"

"I-" He swallows, throat bobbing, but he can't turn away without it being too obvious.

Her smile grows.

"I just mean," he starts, then falters. He's turning pink. "That is to say... I want to do this right."

She grins in full. "You sound like Alistair."

He blinks, then shakes his head, looking down with a lopsided smile. " _Not_  what I was going for. Please don't remind me that I'm competing with my King?"

"Of course not," she says with a small laugh, half-giddy.  _Nathaniel Howe_. Maker, but she'd almost hated him back in Amaranthine - his seeming stoicism, his disapproval, his sharp words. But four years had a way of changing people. She recognizes the man before her, but only through the change in him. "And if I drag you into certain danger again?"

He shrugs, lifting his gaze to hers. "I'll always follow where you lead, Commander. Even if it's straight into a wall."

Her nose crinkles a moment before she leans in and kisses him.


End file.
